


The Ousting of Dolores Umbridge

by CeliaEquus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c., Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Crossover, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 09:12:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10533378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeliaEquus/pseuds/CeliaEquus
Summary: The British Prime Minister is in a bit of a dilemma over a letter he's received from a Hogwarts student, and summons the one person he can trust the most to sort this out: Mycroft Holmes.





	

Mycroft sighed, and directed his driver towards Downing Street. The Prime Minister had called him in a state of agitation, and Mycroft presumed it was something to do with appointing a new leader of the Conservative Party. It could be some new disaster he had not yet heard of, but that was unlikely.

Once in the Prime Minister’s office, everyone else was dismissed, and Mycroft sat on the opposite side of the desk.

“Prime Minister,” he said. John Major ran a hand through his greying hair, and held out a handwritten letter to Mycroft. It was not on paper, but something yellowing and old… parchment? Papyrus? A young woman’s writing, not a self-inking pen, so possibly a calligrapher.

_Dear Prime Minister,_

_I hope you can help us. I imagine that of all the Muggles in Britain, you would have to have been informed of the existence of magic. Our current Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, is utterly incompetent._

Mycroft snorted, and glanced at the Prime Minister. April Fool’s Day was still some months away. But Major looked genuinely upset, and Mycroft had never thought him to be _that_ good at acting. Curious, he returned his attention to the missive.

_He appointed a woman named Dolores Umbridge to be our new professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts. She insists that we only learn from a book, not practise practical defensive spells. She’s thoroughly unpleasant, the archetypal smiling villain, and she punishes the students in a terrible way. She ousted the headmaster and has taken over the school, becoming a totalitarian dictator._

_I have included a pouch of Floo powder. My friends and I will wait by the fire in our common room between the hours of two and five every Saturday and Sunday until the holidays. I want to show you the punishment she has used on my best friend._

_The reason I have written to you is that Umbridge says that she has the full support of Minister Fudge in everything she does to us. I was wracking my brains to think who might bring him under control, and it occurred to me that as the Prime Minister, you outrank him._

The girl followed with instructions on using Floo Powder, whatever that was. He skipped to the end.

_Please let us visit you sometime. We have discovered a way to hide Floo activity for short periods of time. You’re our only hope, Prime Minister._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger._

The address at the top corner of the letter was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Mycroft was now certain that someone was playing a joke on the Prime Minister.

“What do you wish me to do about this?” he asked.

“I’m too busy to deal with this myself,” Major said.

“I will find out who sent this to you, and ensure that they never feel the urge to play a practical joke on you again,” Mycroft promised.

“No… no, magic _is_ real, and the Minister for Magic _is_ Cornelius Fudge,” Major said, looking pained. “I’ve met him. The Ministry of Magic exists. Apparently it can be reached through a phone box in Whitehall, though I haven’t been told how. There really is another world, one entirely of magic. We’re called Muggles, non-magical people. Hogwarts is the only British school of magic. And whenever I’m visited by someone from the Ministry of Magic, they _do_ use the fireplace.”

Mycroft didn’t see any glasses or bottles around, and the Prime Minister was stone cold sober. No smell of alcohol, no indications that he had been smoking, snorting, or injecting any illicit substances. Either he was the victim of possibly a long-term prank, or this was all true.

“Shall we try the Floo powder?” he asked. Major looked so relieved that Mycroft hoped it wouldn’t break him when magic was discovered to be false.

“Yes,” Major said. He picked up a small, leather pouch, and Mycroft followed him to the roaring fireplace. The PM tossed a pinch of powder into the flames, turning them green. That was easily manufactured.

“Allow me,” Mycroft said. He couldn’t stand by and allow the Prime Minister’s head to catch on fire. He knelt before the flames, and reached his hand out gingerly. No heat, surprisingly. Was there a substance which could cool a fire? He cleared his throat, leaned his head into the fire, and spoke. “Gryffindor Common Room, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

He nearly lost his lunch when his head seemed to spin around, and he would have pulled back if he could. Soon everything came into focus, and he was staring at a richly-decorated room, with a red and gold motif, lion decorations, and three teens sitting close by. A teenaged girl with wild brunette hair startled, and looked at him.

“You’re not John Major,” she said, her eyes wide.

“No,” Mycroft said, rallying himself. “I… I presume you are Hermione Granger?”

“Yes! Who are you?”

“Mycroft Holmes. I am contacting you on behalf of the Prime Minister. Perhaps you can join us in his office?”

“Thank you!” she said, brightening. “You… you can pull back now. We’ll be through in a minute. Ron, you keep an eye out—”

Grateful that the experience was over, Mycroft pulled back out of the fireplace. He fell back onto the floor, and felt the blood drain from his face as he processed what he had seen. There shouldn’t have been a room on the other side. Was there something hallucinogenic in the air? Was there a gas leak? If so, why had the spark of the fire not set off an explosion?

The fire flickered back to normal, and Mycroft retreated to the desk, leaning against it while he attempted to regain his usual equilibrium.

“Now do you believe me?” Major asked.

“Not yet,” Mycroft said. “Not… entirely. We must get to a hospital—”

“This is no joke, Holmes! After I took office _five years ago_ the Minister for Magic introduced himself, and told me about magic. Every Prime Minister is told. I’ve never told anyone until now, and only because I am desperate.”

The fire turned green again, and the young woman and the boy with black hair and silver-rimmed glasses stepped into the office. ‘Ron’ was clearly the redhead who had been with them, left to keep guard.

“Won’t you sit down?” Major said, taking his seat. Mycroft gestured for Hermione to sit, and stood nearby, keeping an eye on them. Hermione seemed earnest enough, no obvious signs of trickery. The young man with her was far more cynical and resigned, however, and was covering his left hand.

“I don’t think this’ll help, Hermione,” he said.

“Quiet, Harry,” she said. “We won’t know unless we ask.”

“You are?” Mycroft asked.

“Harry Potter,” he said.

“Perhaps you should tell us your story,” Major said. He leaned forward, speaking kindly, and Mycroft reminded himself that the man was a father.

“Imagine… imagine, if you would, that there was once a magical version of Hitler,” Hermione said. “He wanted to wipe out everyone who didn’t have magic and take over the world. There was this prophecy that he believed in, and he and his followers, magical Nazis, went after two children to get rid of them, because one of them was supposed to defeat him. Well, he died, but not really, when trying to kill Harry, one of those boys.” She glanced at Harry with watery eyes. “But then earlier this year, near the end of school term, the wizard version of Hitler… came back to life. Only because Harry was the only living person to see it who isn’t one of the magical Nazis, the Ministry of Magic doesn’t believe him. They’ve buried their heads in the sand because they don’t like the thought that magical Hitler is back.”

“Voldemort,” Harry said. “Say his name, Hermione.”

“Look, witches and wizards know _exactly_ how bad he is,” she said. “I’m trying to put it in such a way that they’d understand how _serious_ this is.”

He sighed. She went on.

“Umbridge keeps saying that Harry is lying,” Hermione said. “Of course, it doesn’t help that he keeps goading her,” she frowned at her friend, “but a reprimand would do, maybe a detention with Professor Snape. That would be enough to keep you from getting into trouble.”

“It hasn’t yet,” he said smugly.

“That’s _not_ something to be proud of.”

“Yeah, but compared to detention with Lockhart—”

“Back to the point,” Mycroft said. Hermione bit her lip, and nodded quietly.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Umbridge has this… this quill. When you write with it, you don’t use ink, because… because it uses your _blood_ as the ink, and carves the words into your hand. Show them, Harry.”

Harry showed both of them his hand. ‘I must not tell lies’ was indeed there, a fresh scar. If what they were saying was true…

“That’s _barbaric_ ,” Major said. He scowled stormily. “How do we get in contact with Cornelius Fudge?”

“There’s a phone box,” Harry said. “I’m not sure whether they’ve changed the number you type in, but it was about four or five numbers long. Then the inside of the box travels down into the Ministry, and… I guess a new inside appears for the Muggles.”

“If I found a map of Whitehall, would you be able to tell me where this phone box is located?” Mycroft asked. Harry nodded. Mycroft searched the Prime Minister’s shelves for a road directory.

“Thank you,” Hermione said. Mycroft glanced at her, and saw tears falling down her cheeks. But she was smiling. “This is such a load off my mind. Harry didn’t want to talk to any of the teachers, and Dumbledore is who-knows-where, and the Order of the Phoenix… well, Harry doesn’t like asking for help at all. Unless it’s with his homework.”

“I’ve never been able to rely on adults,” Harry said.

“You can rely on us,” Major said firmly.

Mycroft groaned internally. He knew who would really be dealing with this mess.

 

The phone box was right where indicated. He watched surreptitiously from behind a newspaper (humankind’s most useful invention, in his opinion, when in the right hands), and saw a few people use the phone box as normal.

But then a woman entered the phone box, and Mycroft watched in astonishment as the inside of it descended into the ground.

Once the road was clear, he hurried across before anyone else could approach. He entered the phone box, grabbed fingerprint powder, and dusted the buttons. He pressed the ones which stood out, from the darkest to the lightest of the most recently used. He grabbed hold of the side, tightening his grip on the handle of his umbrella, as the whole thing moved downwards. He landed in an underground room, with green mosaic chimneys rising up the sides of the large hall, an elaborate fountain at one end, and pieces of paper flying around. Many people walked around in robes, and a few were waving wands, causing things to float or ghostly animals to form.

“Good Lord,” he muttered.

Most of them seemed to be heading towards the fountain, where many corridors led off to places unseen. Mycroft strode behind them, and followed a group to a set of golden, old-fashioned lifts. He entered one, earning a few looks.

“Can I help you?” a red-haired man asked.

“I am Mycroft Holmes, and I have been sent by the Prime Minister to talk with Cornelius Fudge,” Mycroft said. “Is he in the building?”

“Uh… I think so. I’m Arthur Weasley. You’re… you’re a Muggle?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get into the Ministry?” a blonde woman asked, her brow furrowing.

“I was given instructions,” Mycroft said. “From an anonymous source.”

“I’ll take you to Minister Fudge,” the woman said. She held out her hand, and Mycroft shook it. “Amelia Bones.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

 

Fudge blustered a lot, as all pompous politicians did when confronted with someone more confident in their own power.

“I’ve met this boy,” Mycroft said, referring to Harry Potter. “He wasn’t lying. He does not seem the type to seek attention. It seems to me that if ‘magic’ has no way of proving whether or not someone is telling the truth, you are all terribly behind the times. No truth potions or spells? No way to read minds or visit the past?”

“Well… I suppose if we could view his memories in a Pensieve… b-but they can be doctored!”

“By a fifteen-year-old boy?”

“It’s possible!”

“If he needs help with his homework, I very much doubt it,” Mycroft said. “Either way, that is not what I came here to discuss. There have been allegations of abuse made against Dolores Umbridge, the new headmistress of Hogwarts. Hurting children as punishment, insisting on ridiculous rules, bullying the teachers. There is corporal punishment, Minister Fudge, and then there is torture which leaves permanent scars. Can you distinguish between the two? According to this woman, she is working on your orders.”

“W-what?”

“A quill which uses the writer’s blood as ink and leaves scarring. It is being used to punish students.”

“But… but that would be a Dark object!” Fudge said. “No, I’m sure Dolores wouldn’t use such a thing.”

“Then you won’t mind if I launch an investigation into it,” Mycroft said, smiling his most sinister smile. “On the Prime Minister’s orders. He does outrank you, or had you forgotten that?”

“Uh… n-no… but it’s a different thing, you know… I’m in charge of the Ministry of Magic, like the Prime Minister’s in charge of Muggles…”

“And yet it seems that anyone could run this place better than you,” Mycroft said, “considering that you cannot even control the woman you placed to infiltrate… Hogwarts, and brainwash the students there into turning against one of their own. Children should be able to trust the government and law enforcement, as well as their teachers. You have failed considerably.” Fudge was sweating; Mycroft was beginning to enjoy himself. “I will also conduct an investigation into your Ministry. Something smells a bit fishy here.”

“I can assure you—”

“And I can assure _you_ ,” Mycroft stood, towering over Fudge, “that if these allegations of child abuse are true, none of your magic tricks will prevent me bringing the entire force of the non-magical British nation down on you like a tonne of bricks.”

Fudge gulped.

 

“The children are taught _here_?” Mycroft asked incredulously. He had insisted on coming along to Hogwarts. Before him stood a complete wreck, a medieval castle in ruins. “This is unsafe!”

“Here,” Kingsley Shacklebolt said, handing him a pair of glasses. “They will allow you to see Hogwarts in its true form, not the ruin Muggles are enchanted to see.”

“You’ve cast spells to bewitch non-magical people? Without our knowledge or permission? That’s a contravention of human rights—”

“We can discuss is later,” Fudge said tiredly. His ridiculous green bowler was perched on his head. Mycroft hoped that the glasses would at least lessen the glare.

They didn’t; but now he saw a magnificent castle before him. It wouldn’t be out of place in a Disney film. (Not that Mycroft ever watched Disney films.) It was quite appropriate for children to be taught magic in a place like this, he decided.

“Oh,” he murmured, knowing Sherlock would never believe this. What a pity he didn’t have a camera. Shacklebolt chuckled. They walked through the gates and up the lawn. The doors to the school opened before them, and they approached a set of doors, where the noise of hundreds of children spilled through the cracks.

“The Great Hall,” Shacklebolt said _sotto voce_. Mycroft nodded.

All three men swept through the doors, and in the middle of the staff table at the far end of the hall sat a toad-like woman dressed in pink. She looked up in obvious surprise, but then smiled in an obsequious manner. Mycroft noticed the trio of familiar faces as they moved past. Hermione gave him a small smile. Harry looked pole-axed. The boy had no trust that any adult could help him. Perhaps there was some way…? No. He was likely fine with his parents or other guardians. Still, he’d check on any Harry Potters attending boarding school.

“Minister,” the toad woman said. The rest of the teachers were looking at her with undisguised loathing. “What brings you to Hogwarts?”

“Is it true that you have been using a Dark object on the students during detentions?” Fudge asked. Mycroft couldn’t fault him for his directness. Umbridge sputtered.

“Absolutely _not_ , Minister,” she said, her high-pitched voice dripping with false reassurance. When Fudge looked back towards him, Mycroft frowned just enough to scare the man into continuing.

“There have been allegations made,” Fudge began.

“Perhaps I should examine her office?” Shacklebolt suggested. “To make sure that the headmistress isn’t keeping any Dark objects.”

“What a good idea,” Mycroft drawled. Shacklebolt grinned, and left the hall.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Umbridge said, looking over Mycroft.

“It wouldn’t be a pleasure,” he said. “For either of us.”

Half an hour later, despite her insistence that the quill had been planted in her office, Umbridge was being bound and gagged by Shacklebolt, and Fudge was appointing Minerva McGonagall as headmistress until Albus Dumbledore could be located. The Minister gave no apologies to the students or staff for forcing the situation on them, but Mycroft had every intention of ensuring that a public apology was issued in front of the press… whatever the magical press consisted of. He’d yet to see any televisions or radios, although he did recall seeing a newspaper called _The Daily Prophet_. And Hermione had mentioned a journal called _The Quibbler_. Mycroft could start with those.

**Author's Note:**

> And that’s how the Harry Potter universe was partially saved, by Hermione remembering that Prime Ministers outrank Ministers, and Mycroft Holmes being the man every British politician relies upon. I don’t think he’d allow his memory to be wiped after the incident, since he relies on his brain so much. But maybe he then mobilised the intelligence services to help take out Voldemort and the Death Eaters, or at least got the dirt on them somehow.
> 
> Damn. Anyone want to take this idea and run with it? The Battle at the Ministry doesn’t happen, Mycroft finds out about the Dursleys’ abuse, pushes for Muggleborn rights, and Sherlock can never deduce anything about what’s going on because he still doesn’t know about magic, and this new secret life of Mycroft’s is driving him mad. Sounds like fun to me.
> 
> Please review!


End file.
